


29:  The Art of Losing

by light_source



Series: High Heat [29]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_source/pseuds/light_source
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian may be batshit crazy, but he’s right about one thing: the Giants had come close to trading Tim only two months before, in December 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	29:  The Art of Losing

**Early December 2007**

After the ignominious end of the regular season, the Giants’ front office had panicked. Barry Bonds was gone, and all through October and November, they’d been nosing around for the most impressive heavy hitter they could afford. The Blue Jays had smelled the blood in the water and proposed exchanging their five-tool centerfielder Alex Rios for one of the Giants’ two young homegrown starting pitchers. Then several other teams, sniffing it out, had circled behind the Jays.

So at the winter meetings, three weeks before Christmas, a fat offer from Toronto had landed in the middle of the trade table. Giants GM Brian Sabean had hovered over it, weighing his options in full view of the media, and the Bay Area had buzzed with rumors about why and when and what-the-fuck.

For baseball teams who’ve finished too many seasons below .500, trades of young talent have the taint of sorcery, like the fairy tale where the poor woodcutter agrees to exchange his beautiful only daughter for a single magic pear.

The young player who’s being shopped around the league is usually last to find out he's on the block, and this time was no different.

At six-twenty on a Saturday morning in early December, Lincecum had been jolted awake by his phone’s could-be-anybody ringtone; he’d had to scrounge blindly through the clothes heaped on the floor to find the cell buried in the pocket of his jeans. The caller wasn’t Bochy or Sabean or Rags, but Giants beat reporter Andy Baggarly of the San Jose _Mercury_ , seeking comment. - Was Tim aware, and?

Baggs had kept it short and professional, and Tim had stayed calm enough to blurt out something inane - that Toronto was even farther north than Chicago and way too many time zones away from home, from Seattle. And then he was barely able to squeeze out a - yeah, OK, no problem - before pressing the red key.

//

Zito’s gut still clenches when he remembers: he’d been drinking his morning coffee on the patio, watching the sun pink the sky over the San Gabriels, when he’d stumbled across the two-paragraph story on the back page of the _LA Times_ sports section.

Zito’d spent the rest of that morning in the gym in West Hollywood, where the staff were hanging red and silver tinsel garlands to the accompaniment of Eartha Kitt singing ‘Santa Baby.’ He’d paused again and again, after every three-point-one miles, every time he completed a set of sixty-four lifts, to punch redial. His calls had gone straight to Tim’s voicemail.

After the call from Baggs, Tim had turned off his phone. Then he’d stolen out of the house early, before his dad was up, and driven over to UW to play hoops with Sean and Brandon and Zack and some other old college teammates, their Saturday-morning ritual. He knew he could count on them not to say anything, not during, not after. They don’t read the papers or spend much time on the net and SportsCenter’s not on till later. There’d just be a lot of bullshit about the Seahawks being eight-and-four, dominating the NFC west, it’s the playoffs this year for sure and then the whole thing, _it’s our goddamn turn._

After hoops, they’d gone back to Sean’s for beer and pizza. They'd toggled back and forth between the Huskies game and _Call of Duty 4_ till their thumb-joints were sore and Zack was curled up in Sean’s dad’s old plaid La-Z-Boy, snoring.

When Tim finally stumbled out to his truck at dusk, the western sky was no more than a yellow line at the base of the broad violet horizon. For the first time since Baggs’s call, he’d turned on his phone: twenty-six voice messages, too many texts to even think about, fourteen missed calls. Zito’s number was only one keystroke away, in backwards alpha-order.

 _Pick up,_ Tim had thought, desperation hitting him like a soaked towel. _Fucking pick up the phone._

\- So what’s the politics? said Tim, not even bothering to say hello. His skin prickled at the sound of Zito’s voice. He’d put the key in the ignition but couldn’t bring himself to turn it, sitting there cold and quiet and coming off being drunk, the truck wheels curbed into the hill in front of Sean’s ratty apartment.

\- You and Matty were both shopped, Zito had said, - but the Blow Jays think you’re prettier, lucky boy, how’s that for a compliment?

\- Is it, Tim said, hardly able to get the words out, - is it about hitting or pitching? Or what?

Zito’d been silent, struggling with what to say next. Neither of them could afford to voice what they were both thinking: that the front office was looking to unload Tim for reasons that had nothing to do with baseball.

\- I talked to Rags this morning, Timmy, said Zito. - You need to call him. Now. And then call me right back, he'd said, strangely calm.

//

The Giants’ pitching coach Dave Righetti’d picked up before his phone had had a chance to ring twice.

\- Sorry to call during dinner, Tim’d said, remembering his manners.

\- It is what it is, Timmy, Rags had said quietly, right off.

\- No offense, Rags, said Tim, - but when people say that to me, it usually means I’m screwed.

Tim couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth, but then he realized he’d lost all fear, sitting there in the truck, the windshield glazed with drizzle, shuffling through mental pictures of himself in snowy industrial wastelands, Toronto and Chicago and Cincinnati and Baltimore, fucking _Baltimore._

There’d been a long silence. Rags is like that; he doesn’t talk just to hear himself. He cultivates a wise-old-geezer persona even though he isn’t yet fifty and he’s still got teenagers at home.

\- Just know this, Timmy, he’d continued eventually. Tim could hear him cover the mouthpiece, say something muffled to someone, and switch the phone to the other ear. - If I got anything to say about it, it’s not happening.

\- I let Sabes know, Rags had said, - that I got a standing offer from the Phillies. Charlie Manuel just re-signed in October and he’s already called me twice. My wife’s from there, her folks are there. And hey, she’s a big fan of that young lefty they got, whatsisname, Cole Hamels, Whole Camels. Won’t shut up about him, thinks he’s cute.

\- Exceptional rookie year last year, Hamels. They got Brad Lidge too, best closer in the league, saved every game he pitched last year. I think the front office probably knows, Righetti had continued, - that I wouldn’t exactly hurt myself if I moved over to Philly.

Tim could hear the small but unmistakable smile in the back of Righetti’s voice.

\- It’s been quite awhile since I got to make a threat like that to Brian, Rags had said drily, - so that dog still has some hunt left in ‘im.

\- At any rate, he’d concluded, after a swallow Tim could hear, - ‘s what I could do.

\- Thanks, Rags, Tim had said, his own throat suddenly closing up. - You know what that means to me.

\- Yeah, well, we’ll see, Timmy. You’re right to keep your phone off. Don’t talk to anyone else in the press - let ‘em all just rip off Baggs. And make sure you stay away from the papers and the internet, for pity’s sake. It’ll just make you crazy.

\- And one other thing, wait, you need to know this cause it’s important, adds Righetti, - this is one hundred percent about hitting, OK? _You are not the target._

\- That freakin’ dog of my daughter’s is eatin’ the candy canes off the tree, I gotta go, call me tomorrow around noon, OK?, Rags had said abruptly, and then he’d clicked off.

//

Zito’d still had Haren’s number on his cellphone’s speed dial, so that _DH_ flashed instead of _private caller_ on the ID screen. _Designated hitter,_ Zito’d thought, I never realized.

\- Danny?

\- Yeah, well. It’s been green-lighted, Danny’d said all at once, his voice high and hoarse. - Arizona.

\- What’s Billy saying? asked Zito.

\- Nuthin’. Not a fuckin’ thing. He just talks about something else. Or he has to go - suddenly remembers he left his keys in the car. Or he’s got another call, or the fuckin’ microwave’s dinging. You know how he is. The guy can’t even stand to watch a game.

\- How many of their guys?

\- Six.

There’s a long pause while Haren collects himself. Zito knows to let him.

\- Look, Danny, says Zito. - I know it’s too early to think about it, but why don’t you stay at the Scottsdale place in January? While you’re looking. No one's using it, and I won't be there till pitchers-and-catchers.  It sure beats sitting on the edge of the bed in some Quality Inn making phone calls.

\- Yeah, well, says Haren, and then he stops.

\- You know where the key is, says Zito. - Call me later. Whenever. When you’re ready.

//

That week was maybe Zito’s worst ever, he thinks, worse than waiting on word about college scholarships, worse than all three MLB drafts, worse than waiting for the call-ups from Visalia and Texas and Sacramento. Back then, waiting had been about the future, about promise and possibility and giving it his best shot. This waiting was different. It was about promise disappearing, possibility being yanked away.

All week, as the news and the phone calls had filtered in, Zito’d kept himself busy, running errands in the weak winter sunlight, working out, wind-sprints and intervals up at the dirt end of Mulholland.

The weird thing was that, within the space of five days, he’d managed to lose his cellphone twice, once at a café off Melrose, and a few days later at the French cleaners where he’d picked up his white-tie for a Christmas benefit he'd agreed to attend later that week.

Not until much later had Barry finally understood why he kept leaving his phone behind. He’d been alternating between calls to Tim and calls to Danny, both of them agitated and sick about things they could hardly talk about, rage and fear and disappointment. Danny’d just had the most amazing year of his career and his wife was three weeks away from giving birth. Tim was up in Seattle struggling to accept the fact that home was a place he couldn't go back to.

Both were trying to figure out why their teams were so eager to auction them off.

Zito had been nearly paralyzed by his own uselessness.   He himself was safely beyond the reach of grasping managers, but only because of a freak of timing.  

Danny and Tim - their talent had turned them into chattel.

//

Then, a few days later, as abruptly as it’d started, the wait was over. In a series of moves as clean and brutal as a chess gambit, Dan was gone and Tim was spared.

The two press releases came simultaneously at the conclusion of the winter meetings. Zito, refreshing mlbtraderumors-dot-com for about the three hundred and forty-seventh time, had buried his head in his hands. And then he’d gone outside and sat next to the pool for a long time, until it was fully and perfectly dark.

He’d been in the kitchen, getting himself a bottle of San Pellegrino from the fridge, when the front-gate intercom had buzzed. For the second time that week, Barry’s cellphone had found its way back to him, like a piece of driftwood blown back from the other side of the world.

The first number he'd dialed had been Tim's.

//

**Early February 2008**

The straightest route from LA to Phoenix is the 10, which goes right by Joshua Tree, and when Zito passes the Cottonwood Spring turnoff, he can’t not think about Haren. He wishes there was more stuff out here, billboards and casinos and strip-malls, so that he’d at least have someplace to put his eyes.

When he finally gets there, tired and stiff from the six-hour drive, the driveway of the Scottsdale house is sunk in two inches of fine red dust. No one’s been up here for a week or two, and the house is stale and silent, its curtainless windows staring down the desert. It’s February, still cool enough, so Zito opens all the doors and all the windows; when he’s finished, the house seems to take a long silky breath.

He follows the lambent air through the foyer and the living room to the kitchen. There's a note on the counter, which Zito crumples without reading, and a ring of keys, which he pockets.

The only trace of Haren is in the master suite, where the king-sized bed’s been remade clumsily, the square European pillows akimbo and the duvet skewed off one side. Zito smiles, remembering how Danny’d once told him that making beds was ridiculous, - just _futile_ , Haren had said, - you’re just gonna undo it tonight, so why?

As he goes to hang his sportsjackets in the closet, though, Zito notices a shirt that isn’t his - the sleeves are too long. He plucks it out. It’s a size-seventeen blue-and-white striped pinpoint Oxford, 36/37.

Then, he can hardly believe he’s doing this, _what the fuck,_ he presses it to his face, breathes in. _Danny._

In the kitchen, he finds his phone.  He fishes the crumpled note out of the wastebasket and punches in the number that’s written there.

//

When he catches himself waiting for the sound of Haren’s car, Zito knows he’s in trouble.

Because the front door’s still propped open, he hears Danny’s footsteps on the walk, but doesn’t let himself turn around until Danny’s there, nearly topping the oval arch of the doorframe, then bending a little to toe off his shoes, which are covered with red dust.

\- Hey yourself, says Haren, in response to Zito’s greeting, - look, I’m sorry about the shirt, I thought I got everything.

\- No problem, says Zito. - Sit, dude.

He knows that as long as he doesn’t get up from the couch where he’s sitting, he won’t have to touch Haren, give him the obligatory we’re-still-friends hug.

Haren takes the leather club chair across from him and stretches his long legs and bare feet out on the matching ottoman. His face is gaunt, and his hair and beard, always on the edge of unruly, are long and wild. As always, the blue eyes blaze. He looks resigned, expendable, like a guy in an old photograph.

\- This chair, says Haren, drumming on the armrests with his fingers, - is what got me through January. I thought a lot about a lot of things in this chair, he says, - and no, you motherfucker, not _once_ did I think of you.  

He smiles. - It’s where I sealed the deal on the new place.

\- It’s off Camelback, nice big yard for the dogs, no stairs for the in-laws - he makes a face - and a pool with a spa. It’s good, I been sending her the pictures, he continues. - She’s excited for it, thinks all this adobe shit is da bomb, or that’s what her sister said anyway.

\- The in-laws have been up in Orinda since before the baby came, Haren continues, - and I’m starting to think that maybe there was some cosmic logic behind this fuckin’ trade. He smiles. - Cause if I was there I’d probably be in jail for attempted murder. Her mom - she means well - it’s just - well, you know. They got their hands full.

There’s a pause that grows and stretches. Zito lets it hang there. He considers asking about the baby, but doesn’t. He’s noticed that Danny hasn’t yet said Jessica’s name.

\- You look good, really good, Zeets.  Whatcha been doin’?

\- Nothing much.  It's all smoke and mirrors, says Zito.

He gets up, goes into the kitchen, and finds Danny a Corona that’s been in the fridge since forever, and remembers to pry off the cap with a churchkey. But when he returns to the living room and hands it over, Haren puts the full bottle down on the floor next to his chair.

\- I heard, says Danny. - About you guys.

Zito can feel Danny looking straight at him, those blue blue eyes. Fuck.

Zito’s eyes flicker up. He decides to take the fifth. Least said, most learned, he remembers his dad saying - probably the best advice he ever got.

\- Happy?  Haren says at last. -  You look happy, Barry.  There's something about you.

Zito gets up and goes over to the table, where Danny’s shirt is hanging off the back of one of the chairs. He holds it up, his face deliberately blank, his eyebrows raised. Haren twists around to see him, but doesn’t get up; his hands are clenched around the arms of the chair, knuckles paling.

\- I’m glad things are working out, Danny, says Zito formally, feeling like he’s ending a job interview where both he and the candidate know there's no future in it.

But there’s a pressure in Zito’s chest, as though he’s about to run out of breath from pushing himself too hard.

Haren rises, turns, and takes the hanger from Zito without touching his hand. With that peculiar catlike grace of his, he threads his way around the ottoman and chair, through the gap by the table, and then he’s at the front door, bending to slip on his dusty Keens one foot at a time. He’s put the hanger on the doorknob so he can use both hands.

Zito, his arms folded tight across his chest, has gotten up to see him out, and now he's leaning in the entryway against the still-open doorjamb, resting his weight on one hip. He’s finally feeling a chill in the air, noticing the night closing the distance beyond the door, the automatic lights blinking on alongside the walkway.

\- Thanks for the use of the house, Barry, says Haren, - typical of you. To be so generous.

He fumbles, without looking, for the hanger on the doorknob, and knocks it off onto the tile floor.  

The blue-and-white shirt flutters down and settles itself like a bird.

Zito would have been fine, he would have made it, if they hadn’t bent over at exactly the same time, if their shoulders hadn’t touched.

He'd gone up like straw.

\- _C’mon, scarecrow,_ says a voice from memory, - _how 'bout a little fire?_

 _It’s just a movie_ , says his mother's remembered voice.  

Haren’s mouth is cool and sweet and asking.  And the big, responsive hands - Barry's body sinks into them like they're an unmade bed.

Fire and the opposite of fire.

And it’s Danny's smell, even afterward, that he can’t lose, the summer smell of his warm skin, and the way he’s so quiet but so _there._

 __The only thing that breaks the silence of the house is the sound of them taking a single breath, together.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Elizabeth Bishop's poem "One Art." Which reads, in part,
> 
> The art of losing isn't hard to master;  
> so many things seem filled with the intent  
> to be lost that their loss is no disaster.


End file.
